


Comforting Arms

by shadowsamurai



Series: Progression [1]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsamurai/pseuds/shadowsamurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam suffers a nightmare; Foyle is there to chase it away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comforting Arms

**Author's Note:**

> This is my version of an epilogue for 'Fifty Ships', Season 2, Episode 2.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing things for a while and I promise I'll put everything back exactly how I found it when I've finished. Well, almost exactly how I found it ;)

FW-FW-FW-FW-FW-FW

Sam hesitated on the step as Foyle opened the front door. Sensing his driver's unease, Foyle looked over his shoulder. "You can always go back to the station if you want," he said.

Sam understood that he wasn't dismissing her, he was just giving her the option of leaving if she wanted. She smiled and ducked her head slightly. "Thank you, sir, but I expect that your spare bed is much comfier than the one in the cell."

"I'm sure you'll tell me in the morning if it isn't," Foyle replied straight-faced as he took his coat and hat off and hung them up. "Let me show you where you'll be sleeping. I'm sure you'll want to freshen up before dinner."

"Thank you, sir," Sam said, following the Chief Superintendent up the stairs. "I really do appreciate this, sir."

"It's quite alright, Sam. So long as it stays between us."

"As I said at the station, I'm quite good at keeping secrets, sir. Believe it or not," she added in a quiet voice, but Foyle heard her nonetheless and couldn't help the small bubble of laughter that escaped from between his lips.

He masked the action by clearing his throat. "Well, I'll let you get settled in. Would you like to come down when you are ready, or would you prefer me to shout when I've made dinner?"

"I'll come down, sir. Would you like me to help with dinner?"

"No, that won't be necessary." Foyle gave Sam a smile, turned and left the room, pulling the door shut as he went.

Sam looked around the room and then sat on the bed. It was definitely comfier than a bed in the cells at the police station. She stayed like that for a while, absorbing the atmosphere of Foyle's house. She had been here before, of course, but never for any length of time. Sam smiled as she remembered her short stay as Sergeant Milner's house; when they danced, it was like the war didn't exist, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Milner smile like that. Until his wife returned and found them. Sam sighed and shook her head. Things were not well in that household, but there was nothing she could do about it. Sam then smiled again. For some reason, she couldn't imagine Foyle dancing.

She shook her head again, gentler this time, took her hat off, and started to unpack her meagre belongings. She folded her spare work shirt and her nightgown up carefully and placed them on the bed. She debated taking her shoes off but decided against it. She couldn't afford to replace her stockings if they got holes in them.

Sam took one last look around the room, and then headed to the door, only to stop when it was open. She realised she didn't know where the bathroom was, but she did work with a detective, and a small amount of deductive reasoning later, she found it. It smelt very male, very…Foyle. Sam sighed as her mind began wandering into forbidden territory. He was her boss, she was his driver. That was the way it had to be. Besides, Foyle had never shown any interest in her other than concern for an employee.

Downstairs, Foyle was just putting the finishing touches to dinner. It was nothing to write home about - they were at war, after all - but it was sufficient, and he was certain Sam would enjoy it. And even if she didn't, he knew she wouldn't complain about it. Not that she needed to say anything, really. Even though they had only been working together for a short amount of time, Foyle could read her expressions better than Sam realised, and he often had a good idea of what she was saying before she said it.

He wasn't quite sure why he had put the radio on, but the song that was playing made him want to dance, an occurrence that didn't happen very often. Foyle was certain that Sam didn't dance, and even if she did, she wouldn't want to dance with him. His mind wandered briefly into fantasy land, but it was brought back by a bright voice.

"It smells wonderful, sir. Oh, I do like this song," Sam said with a smile.

"Really?" *Well, what else could I say?* he thought. *Would you care to dance?*

"Oh, absolutely, sir."

It took Foyle a minute to realise Sam was talking about the song, not his unspoken offer of a dance. 

"Me too." *Damn, that wasn't supposed to happen,* he thought.

"Really?" Sam seemed surprised, and there was an unspoken question behind that single word. 

Time seemed to stand still as Foyle debated what to do, his heart and his head battling furiously.  
"Would you like to dance?" he asked, hoping he could at least take her in his arms before the song ended.

Sam's eyes widened so much Foyle thought they were going to pop out of her head. "Really, sir?" She sounded like a child on Christmas morning that had got everything they wished for.

Foyle half-shrugged. "Why not?" He took a step towards her and held his arms open. Sam blushed furiously and stepped into the circle. They had just started to move when the song finished and another song, an unfamiliar one, started. "Ah. Never mind. Are you hungry?"

"Famished, sir," Sam said hurriedly, moving away to the table.

"Then dinner is served," Foyle replied, putting the plate in front of her with a flourish, eliciting a small giggle from his driver.

They ate in relative silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Foyle was surprised that Sam didn't feel the need to speak as much as she did at work, and he had to admit that he found it as refreshing as her constant chatter.

After dinner, Foyle sat reading the newspaper while Sam leafed through a dog-eared book. Every so often, he would read an article out loud that he thought she would find interesting. About nine o'clock, Sam announced she was worn out and would be retiring to bed. Foyle stood politely and bade her goodnight. He waited until she had stopped moving about upstairs, gave it another half an hour, and then went to bed himself. He felt as though it had been a long day, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep.

But around midnight - at least that's what time Foyle thought it was - sleep was still evading him. Thoughts kept swirling around his head like a cyclone, and at least half of them were about the other occupant in his house, but some were on his son, and some were on his sergeant as well. He wished he could help Milner in some way, but years of experience with people in general had taught Foyle that sometimes the best thing was to just stay out of the way.

A sudden noise made Foyle bolt upright in bed, and for a minute, he did actually forget there was someone else in the house. Then the noise came again and he realised it was Sam. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Foyle fumbled around as he lit a lamp, put his dressing gown on, and went out in the corridor. It was now silent, and he wondered if he had imagined it. But then he heard it again, an anguished cry, and Foyle was torn as to what to do. The rational part of his brain told him to go back to bed now he had established what the sound was, but the compassionate part - which seemed to be conspiring with his heart - told him to make sure Sam was alright. With a sigh, Foyle shook his head and pushed the door to the spare room open very carefully.

He shone the light into the room slowly, not wanted to wake Sam up, but when he saw the agitated state she was in, he knew that was what had to be done. He padded into the room silently, turning the lamp down so it only emitted a dim light and setting it on the bedside table. Being careful not to get too near her, Foyle whispered, "Sam." Nothing. "Sam, you're having a nightmare. You need to wake up."

But his driver steadfastly ignored him, and had she been awake, Foyle would have been mildly annoyed. Sam wasn't awake, however, and Foyle was becoming increasingly worried, especially as her tormented cries and thrashing about had increased.

Leaning closer, and speaking a little louder, he said, "Sam, you must wake up. Sam." She seemed to settle somewhat, until he stopped speaking anyway, and Foyle decided it was in the best interest of his driver to try a little experiment. "Sam, whatever is wrong is only in a dream. It isn't real, it can't hurt you. You've faced tougher situations than the one in your head right now." The more Foyle talked, the more Sam calmed down, until she had stopped thrashing and her breathing had returned to normal. "Good girl," Foyle whispered, hoping he didn't sound patronising. "Now try not to have another nightmare. I need some sleep as well."

He took one last look at Sam's peaceful face and turned away. The next thing Foyle knew, something had grabbed his wrist and he was embarrassed to admit that he yelped quietly. He turned back to see Sam's hand clamped around his arm, and she didn't show any signs of letting go. "Sam, this really isn't on, you know." He tried to move away, but she held on tighter. "It's a good job no one can see us, Miss Stewart," Foyle muttered, but it was obvious Sam was still distressed.

"No!" she shouted suddenly, making Foyle jump again. "No! Don't! Please, don't!"

"Don't what, Sam?" Foyle asked.

"Don't," she whispered. "No, not him. Hurt me. Anything but that!"

Foyle was thoroughly torn as to what to do, but his driver needed him. Moving slowly, he stepped backwards until he reached the bed, then he sat down. Sam's grip on him relaxed more and more the closer he got towards her. "Who's trying to hurt who, Sam?" he asked quietly.

"Please, no. Don't hurt him!"

"Who, Sam?" Foyle asked again.

But Sam didn't answer. Instead she started sobbing into her pillow, and she released Foyle's arm so suddenly, he wondered if she was awake. But she just clasped her hands tightly under her chin and showed no signs of being aware he was there, and he wondered what sudden turn her nightmare had taken now. Sam's cries were so anguished and tormented that they wracked her entire frame, and Foyle felt his heart breaking.

"Rosalind, help me," he whispered in a pleading tone. *Do what you feel is right, Christopher,* he heard his dead wife reply. *We are at war - tomorrow may never come, so try to live in the here and now. And right now, there is no one else around and she needs you.*

Even though he knew he was reassuring himself, Foyle smiled slightly; that was exactly what his wife *would* have said had she still be alive. Taking a deep breath, Foyle lifted his legs onto the bed, lay down on his side, and moved closer to Sam's back. He burrowed his right arm between her neck and the pillow, and his left he placed hesitantly over her shoulder, covered her hands with his.  
"It's alright, Sam. You're not alone," Foyle said quietly, and she began to quieten down. Sam moved one of her hands to cover his, and that action gave him confidence to carry on talking. "I'm sure if you woke up now, you would be quite embarrassed by this situation, but, er, I'm not. This is quite nice, really, being able to comfort someone, especially when that someone is…you." Sam's breathing had steadied greatly and her sobs were now little hiccups. "I wish I could protect you from the nightmares, Sam, but you know I can't. Though I'm not sure you would want me to." Foyle sighed, his heart suddenly heavy, and he made to get up.

"Don't go," Sam whispered quietly and he froze. How long had she been awake? Was she even awake or still talking in her sleep? "Don't leave me, please."

Foyle shook his head. Of course she was still asleep. Sam would never say anything like that if she was awake. "I'll stay for a short while, but I need some sleep too, Sam."

"I don't really want you to go, sir. You're right, this is nice."

Oh, damn. She was awake; the 'sir' was a dead giveaway. "H-how long have you been awake?" Foyle asked, very proud of himself that he didn't stutter too much. But he didn't move, either.

"Oh, not long, sir," Sam reassured him, her voice still quiet. There was a brief silence and then, "I'm sorry I woke you up, sir."

"You were having a nightmare," Foyle said, his tone part statement, part question.

Sam nodded and sighed. "I get them a lot, unfortunately," she admitted, once again taking the policeman by surprise.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm sure you would much rather go back to bed, sir," Sam said, although Foyle was sure that was the last thing she wanted. He decided to do something very out of character and take a chance.

"Not really. Besides, if you have another nightmare, I'd only have to get up again," he replied in a light tone.

"Very true, sir. Well, it's all quite embarrassing, really. I know I'm worrying about nothing, but that doesn't stop me from worrying."

Foyle smiled. That was typical Sam-speak, unlike when she had been asleep. "And what are you worrying about?"

"The war. What if England does get invaded by the Jerrys, sir?" Sam asked, her voice very quiet and slightly scared.

Foyle instinctively tightened his embrace around her. "I won't let anything happen to you," he found himself saying.

"But you can't protect me all the time, sir. We're only together at work," Sam pointed out.

"True," Foyle agreed. "But we're not at work now, are we?"

He knew she was smiling. "No, sir."

"So I can protect you tonight. If you want," he added.

"Thank you." Sam paused, and Foyle knew she was about to ask something else. He didn't have to wait long. "If that's the case, sir, would you mind awfully getting under the covers? It must be chilly out there."

Foyle suppressed a smile. Only Sam could make a proposal like that sound so business-like and innocent. "If that's what you want."

"Oh, I don't mind, sir. After all, you're quite safe and trustworthy, aren't you?"

There was a hint of something in her voice, not malicious, but flirtatious perhaps? Mischievous? Foyle wasn't sure, but he also wasn't about to argue as he was actually quite cold. He disentangled himself from Sam, shed his dressing gown, and climbed under the covers. But instead of taking her back in to his arms, he kept his distance as much as he could in the small bed.

"Is - is there something wrong, sir?" Sam asked hesitantly.

"Wrong, Sam?"

"Yes, sir. You - you seem far away."

"Ah. I wasn't sure if you wanted me, er, that close," Foyle replied, silently amused at the conversation he was having with his driver and the situation he found himself in.

"I would have thought it would be difficult to protect me from over there, sir," Sam said glibly, and then she fell silent, wondering if she had overstepped the boundary.

"Quite right."

Foyle moved himself forwards, slid his right arm back under Sam's neck, and went to drape the other one over her, but stopped. Sam was about to ask what was wrong again when she decided to just seize the moment. Shaking a little, she reached up, took his hand, and brought it across her, around her waist, keeping his hand in hers.

"Alright now?"

"Oh, tickety-boo, Ch-" There was no covering up Sam's slip of the tongue, with Foyle being a policeman and all, but she tried to, coughing quietly.

But Foyle didn't move away, and when he spoke, all he said was, "Good. Night, Sam."

Sam smiled. "Good night."

The lack of a 'sir' was intentional on her part, and it didn't go unnoticed by Foyle either. But he didn't mind. He finally had Sam where he wanted her, even if it was only for one night, and the best part was, she seemed quite happy to be there with him.

FIN


End file.
